


The Art of pain (and the preservation of beauty)

by petitlionhomme



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drugging, Incest, Murder, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 19:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19091947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitlionhomme/pseuds/petitlionhomme
Summary: What is beauty? Is it something to preserve or must it fade with time?





	The Art of pain (and the preservation of beauty)

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags

“The mumrik body is quite a wonderful thing, full of organs and blood. Fragile things that manage to sustain a whole life.. Isn’t that amazing?” 

 

The gentle sound of running water and the smell of antiseptic filled Snufkin’s nose, the words sounding muffled and slowly coming to him as he came to. He shifted, grunting softly and prying his eyes open. His head hurt, and his limbs felt so heavy, like lead.

 

“Wh..” His words were slurred, voice rough from how dry his throat was. Looking around, the room slowly came into focus. It was his father’s creepy taxidermy shop, the one where he had a host of stuffed squirrels, deer, boar and other creatures. He was in the basement, to be precise, and as the clean and sterile smell started to overwhelm him, a pair of blue eyes gazed down into his own. 

 

“You’re awake.” Joxter always looked tired, a mess of a creature with a reputation for being lazy and very problematic for any authority figures. Snufkin went to sit up, and much to his displeasure, discovered that he  _ couldn’t move. _ He started to squirm, panic choking him up as he fought and squirmed, frustrated tears coming to his eyes when he heard his father trying to gently shush him.

 

“Shh.. Shh.. Calm down, Snufkin, it’s alright.” He peered down over him, clawed hand gently stroking through his hair, one hand coming to his cheek where he rubbed his thumb over the apple of his cheek. “Stop panicking, it’s gonna be okay.”

 

Snufkin felt himself calming at the soft gestures, though the fear didn’t dissipate and instead, he appeared to be closer to hyperventilating. Joxter sighed and stepped away, trailing his fingers back from his cheeks and hair as he walked away, shoes clicking against the floor.

 

“Dear boy, I need you to cooperate with me, alright?” Joxter sighed, the sound of metallic scraping reaching Snufkin’s ears, as well as the sound of more rushing water and then a startling silence.

 

Joxter walked over to Snufkin and leaned down over him again, this time holding a cup. The smell of sweet tea reached Snufkin’s nose but there was a mild sickness that filled the pit of his stomach.

 

“Drink.”

 

Grabbing the back of Snufkin’s head, fingers tangling in his messy hair, he lifted his head to an awkward angle and pressed the rim of the cup to his lips. Snufkin couldn’t shake his head but instead clamped his mouth shut, eyes narrowed with a mix of anger, hatred and fear. 

 

“It’s just tea, boy.” Joxter’s voice was gruff, but he pressed the cup to his own mouth and took a sip, swallowing. “It’s fine.” 

 

That didn’t deter Snufkin however. He didn’t  _ trust _ it, there was something wrong about the drink. The whole situation was fucked to hell and back, but he knew that drinking that tea would be irredeemable. 

 

Blue, dead eyes stared down at Snufkin, looking tired, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

 

“Drink the tea, Snufkin, or I’ll cut you open while you’re conscious.” The cup was shoved back against his lips, and he slowly opened his mouth. It was unceremoniously poured down his throat, choking him, tea clogging up his nose. Joxter didn’t stop until the cup was empty, Snufkin had drank a large amount of it though most ended up on his face. 

 

The effect was immediate, his vision started to blur and he felt dizzy, the corners of his vision eventually darkening. His eyes fell closed and he felt numb, but he knew that his chances of waking back up were slim to none.

  
  


Staring at his son’s prone body, Joxter sighed, grabbing a scalpel. He picked up a pair of scissors and walked over, grabbing Snufkin’s sweater, and cutting it open, staring down at his exposed chest. It was littered with little scars. His chest was still rising and falling, but it was so minute that it looked as if he was dead. Grabbing a towel, he wiped the tea from his face and stared down at him, noting that his lips were rather reminiscent of his mother’s round and plump.

 

He leaned in a pressed a quick kiss to his mouth before he retreated and glanced at the clock that hung on the wall.

 

“I’ve got nothing but time.. Precious boy..” He pressed the scalpel to Snufkin’s chest and slowly dragged it down, the skin flowering open and revealing the bone of his ribcage and his diaphragm.

 

“Beautiful,” Joxter mused, eyes watching the blood as it began to leak. He could see his heart beating, his lungs as they filled and deflated. “Both inside and out..”

 

Joxter was gentle, much more than he ever was with any of the animals that he stuffed full of cotton, as he removed organs, cleaned flesh and sewed him back up. Snufkin died peacefully, it was as simple as cutting the heart from his chest and his lungs stopped filling with air, his blood seemed to slow its flow and even in death, he was stunning.

 

Scrubbing Snufkin clean after he finished removing everything on the inside that would rot away, he’d sewed him back up and stared down at the body, eyes glazed over as he scanned him over. He looked like his mother, he even had her red hair despite it being darker and much closer to his own brown.

 

Reaching down, he traced his hand across Snufkin’s cold cheek, sighing softly. Joxter opened Snufkin’s eyes, noting that he wasn’t sure he’d have any glass ones that would be such a stunning mix of green and brown, perhaps he’d try and paint the golden flecks in. 

 

What better way to preserve the beauty of his son than to turn him into one of the many taxidermied creatures in his workshop, in his own home? Snufkin was beautiful, even with his sunken in stomach and his empty chest cavity. He’d have to pull the teeth from his mouth, skin him and stuff him, because flesh decayed. 

 

Flesh rotted and became hideous shades of gray. Joxter couldn’t imagine seeing his boy anything other then flushed skin, a semblance of life.

 

For a moment, a moment of weakness, he regretted that he would never see Snufkin smile again, he would never hear his laugh (he could keep his memories, but what good was that?) though he told himself it was for the greater good, for the truest love of art. He had to keep Snufkin in his youth, though he wondered vaguely  _ would he have been more beautiful in his early twenties? He’d be less scrawny surely…  _ but the thoughts were useless, his son was dead and he could not bring him back. He would be  _ thankful _ in the passing days, he reassured himself.

 

After all, he would have to thank the Verreaux brothers for showing that it was possible to stuff things with such stretchy flesh and the easy discoloration of skin.

 

Joxter paused, staring down at Snufkin’s face, his eyes watered, tears blurring his vision, slowly sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto his boy.

 

_ Art is pain,  _ Joxter thought to himself as he traced Snufkin’s cold flesh,  _ and the preservation of beauty is perhaps the most painful of all forms of art. _


End file.
